The Luke Titan Chronicles: Books 1-4: The Luke Titan Chronicles Boxset

by David Beers

  Charles glanced over at Titan; both men were standing almost shoulder to shoulder—though Titan’s was much higher than Charles’s.

  His face held the same placid non interest.

  “What do you think?”

  “This is a very good job, Mr. Twaller.”

  Charles nodded and looked at the man a second longer. Finally, he turned back to the television screens.

  It was a very good job, no doubt about it. This might not be the largest attack against the Federal Government in terms of death count, but it certainly was in regards to the number of attackers.

  Charles forced himself away from the televisions and turned back to the radios. He picked up the one on the far right.

  “Are any reinforcements there yet?”

  THE HIGHER THE ELEVATOR ROSE, the more Christian heard. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he understood it was huge. It sounded like a war had started. War.

  “What are you doing?”

  Christian turned his head slowly, surprised to hear anyone inside the elevator—especially his own mother. She hadn’t spoken to him like this in years. None of his former apparitions showed themselves anymore, offering him advice. He had been alone, and yet here she was, standing in the corner of the elevator, ready to have a conversation.

  “I’m going to help Simone,” he said, knowing that he was only talking to his own mind. It used to do this often, in order to help him make it through tough times.

  “You’re going to help her, Christian? You can shoot that gun decently at best, and do you hear what’s happening, even through these concrete walls? How many men are up there shooting? What are you going to possibly be able to do?”

  Christian turned away from her.

  “Honey,” his mother said, “I’m not trying to be cruel, but you’ll die if you go through that door. Whatever is happening, one man can’t stop it.”

  He ignored her, the same as he had the other inside his mansion. It didn’t matter what she said, nor that it might be similar to what his actual mother would say—he wasn’t leaving Simone up there. No possible way.

  If that meant dying, okay. Preferable even.

  The elevator doors opened and Christian saw the chaos for the first time. He had viewed chaos before, up close and with a lot at stake. He hadn’t panicked during those times, and he didn’t panic here either. He might never achieve the calm, almost reptilian mindset that Luke possessed at times like these, but a certain knowledge came over him: he had to keep his head if Simone was to live.

  His gun was already raised as he looked through the smoke and shattered walls.

  Christian ducked down and came out low, running for the opposite corner. He didn’t slow as he reached it, but slid his feet out from under him, landing on the smooth floor and sliding out until his left hand caught the corner, bringing him to a stop.

  Tommy would be proud, he thought.

  His mind took in everything, understanding the dangers around him and relaying them to his conscious self with perfect timing.

  Christian rose to his feet, but stayed crouched. He looked out beyond the corner. Smoke was everywhere, and the smell of gunpowder was heavy in the air. The screams of the dying were everywhere, rising above the alarm’s insanely loud howl.

  How could he find her in here, and where in the hell was back up?

  He heard weapons discharging that lacked the heavy firepower from those outside, meaning other agents were now turning outward and defending themselves.

  Christian looked into the lobby, trying to see through the destruction.

  “You won’t be able to see anything from here.”

  What in the hell? he wondered. It was Michael Hanson. Dr. Michael Hanson—the psychiatrist that Waverly still made him see. He’d never shown up as an apparition, not even once, and yet here he was giving advice.

  Christian didn’t turn around and risk getting shot, he knew these apparitions would continue speaking regardless what he did.

  “You’re going to need to get out front,” Hanson said.

  “That’s where the risk is,” his mother said.

  “Both of you shut up.”

  They were right, though. Christian took off, his body bent over low, and made it to the back of the security station.

  He dropped to his ass, his back sliding down the polished wooden credenza. Bullets flew through the air above him, some smashing into the very structure he hid behind. It was only a matter of time before one caught him in the lung.

  He turned, kneeling, so that he faced the front of the building, and peeked over the top.

  Christian could see outside, and his body—despite the war around him—grew cold at the sight.

  Men were approaching (his mind immediately putting the number around fifty), nearing the shattered windows and doors, mowing down everything they saw. It looked like some apocalyptic nightmare, with the healthy coming to gun down the infected.

  A bullet whizzed by Christian’s face, the sound of it ringing in his ear after it passed.

  He scanned his sides, seeing others doing the same as him, only their guns were firing, trying to hit anyone they possibly could.

  “There’s some cover,” Hanson said with the same detachment he always used in his sessions.

  “Christian, be careful,” his mother said from the other side of him.

  Christian dropped to his stomach and started crawling, his legs pushing him forward while he did his best to keep the gun in firing position.

  He moved out from behind the security desk’s protective shield, seeing dead bodies and dying people around him. He moved past them as fast as he could, intent on finding one single person.

  “SIMONE!” he shouted, hoping that she might hear his voice through the cacophony. “SIMONE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  He kept moving, his eyes scanning the room and his mind as close to a computer as any human would ever achieve—identifying and dissecting everything he saw.

  “There,” Hanson said from his side, now crawling too. “Someone moving.”

  Christian saw her immediately, and needed nothing else. That was Simone’s red hair and she was crawling, though not in the right direction. She was heading to the wall on the opposite side of the building.

  Christian headed toward her.

  SIMONE KNEW nothing except that she needed to keep moving. If she did that, if she kept her body’s momentum going forward, she would eventually find safety. If she stopped, she died.

  She was finally crying—sobbing actually, though not from fear. The smoke was too much, even down on the floor. She could barely see anything, but she couldn’t stop to wipe at the tears dripping down her face. That would halt her progress. It would be death.

  Her hand touched someone’s leg, a wet meaty thing, clearly where a bullet had ripped through.

  She didn’t care, just pushed it out of the way, acting more animal than human.

  Simone crept crawling and the time felt endless, each inch truly a mile in her mind.

  Finally, she screamed.

  A hand grabbed her ankle and roughly pulled her back, her hands stretching out in front of her. She kicked without looking, feeling something hard beneath her foot as she did. The hand released and she scurried forward, desperately wanting to get away from whatever it was.

  She moved forward a few feet before the hand clamped down again, and this time she felt another come immediately after, grabbing her free leg. She was pulled roughly and fast, all the way back.

  “SIMONE, STOP!”

  She turned her head at the sound of the voice, and through the smoke and fear, she saw Christian.

  “STAY DOWN AND FOLLOW ME!”

  Simone did no such thing. She reached out and hugged her troubled friend, joy surging through her.

  CHRISTIAN WASN’T ready for the embrace, but it came with a mugger’s force. Simone wrapped him in her arms and pulled him close, both of them lying like lovers on the ground.

  “Okay, okay,” he said,
forcing her away. “We’ve got to go.” His voice was softer, as she could hear him now and wasn’t kicking in his face.

  Blood was leaking from his nose but he didn’t feel any pain; his adrenaline was coursing too fast.

  “Come on. That way.” He pointed in the opposite direction and then shoved her forward, changing his mind about her following him.

  They started crawling, moving past the dead without granting them a glance.

  Something exploded behind them, and Simone stopped momentarily, turning around to look, but he shoved again—forcing her onward in a way he would have never done otherwise.

  Christian didn’t know where safety lay in this place, but he knew where they were going—back to subbasement C. Back to Tommy and the small family he had in this place. If he was going to die, he’d do it there, with them.

  They moved another fifty feet before Christian heard the sweetest sound in his life.

  Heavy artillery fire from a helicopter high above.

  “IT’S OVER,” Luke said. He saw the helicopter and watched as its 30mm rounds hammered down into the world beneath. “Few of your men will live.”

  “I know.”

  Some had fled a few minutes before, understanding that they’d overstayed their welcome.

  The helicopters began arriving on all the screens, SWAT teams showing up in heavily armored vehicles as well.

  Luke watched the screens go black as Charles hit the off button on the remote controls. He turned and looked at the fat man. He held a two-way radio to his face, and was speaking into it.

  “Retreat if possible. We’ll be in contact.”

  He turned the first radio off and picked up the second.

  Luke turned from the living room and walked into the kitchen. He wanted a drink, and found the liquor cabinet easily enough. He took a glass and poured himself a double shot of scotch, aged 18 years. He lifted it to his nose, breathed in, and then sipped the golden liquid.

  He didn’t turn around as he heard the fat man’s feet waddle into the kitchen.

  “What’s next?”

  Luke took another sip, savoring the liquor in which so much work and time had gone into its creation. What was next? That was the question he needed to answer. Luke wasn’t drinking due to stress or sadness, it was in celebration.

  He knew that they had attacked Christian’s office, but the overall death count would be relatively low. Christian had been on a higher floor when Luke worked with him, and regardless, he got to work early (if he even left the building). The chances of him being in the lobby when everything happened were small, and outweighed by the importance of people he knew dying. Of watching people he knew die.

  “Come, have one with me,” he said and poured another glass. He didn’t find the fat man pleasant, but a celebration should be done with others. He turned and handed a glass to Charles. “Today has been a good day and it’s not yet noon. To war.”

  The two touched glasses and drank. Luke lowered his and then looked down at the fat man.

  “What’s next?” he asked again.

  The man was insatiable, and Luke thought he might know it. A rare trait in people, the ability to understand their weaknesses and strengths. The man thought his insatiability was a strength, though … and right now it was.

  “I’ll need some time to review what happened today. I’ll be in touch shortly.”

  Luke finished his glass and placed it down on the counter. He turned and headed through the kitchen, making his way to the door.

  “Hold on a goddamn second. You’ll be in touch shortly? That’s not going to work for me, friend. We just declared war on the federal government, and you going into hiding isn’t good for me. The money from this attack was well and good, but I’m not keen on waiting for you while the FBI figures out who did this. We need to act fast.”

  Luke stopped walking. He had never involved someone in his actions like this before, and the reason why was right behind him. Their desires, their wants—all so petty and silly. He turned back around, looking at the fat, short man.

  “You will be safe, as long as you took the advised precautions. We are on a timeline, Mr. Twaller, but not yours. We’re on my timeline, and it’s going to work perfectly if you act properly. So far you’ve shown you can, and that you’re more than capable. Please do not ruin this. It would be most disappointing.”

  The man said nothing for a second and Luke saw he was considering a shootout right here in his home. Mr. Twaller wasn’t unhinged, exactly, though he could become so if allowed. Luke would hate to kill him now, and it might actually ruin what was to come.

  “When will you be in touch?”

  “Tomorrow,” Luke said, holding the man’s gaze like a titanium clasp.

  “Okay. Tomorrow then.”

  Luke looked for another second, seeing the man’s moment of contemplating murder had passed.

  He left the house, ready to talk to Christian.

  CHAPTER 9

  V eronica, or Betsy Arnold depending on who you were, watched the television with sick fear … and yet fascination.

  Her entire office stood around the break room’s television. Veronica had pushed her way to the front, not caring who she might anger by doing so.

  “What the hell is going on?” someone asked. “Is it terrorists?”

  Veronica studied the TV, the news station switching back and forth from the different attack sites. All of them FBI buildings. And the one in Atlanta …

  Tears pricked her eyes and she quickly reached up to wipe them away. No one was looking at her right now, which was good, but she still had to hold it together.

  It might be terrorism, but Veronica’s heart said something else. It spoke two words.

  Luke Titan.

  And then just one, the name she always called him by.

  Luke.

  Any number of things could be happening right now, but Veronica was quickly discarding them all. Those men on the television, not a single one looked Muslim (even if the overhead view was high up, she saw not a single beard among the attackers). A domestic terrorism attack? Not hardly. The largest one had been committed by a lone wolf, Timothy McVeigh, and he’d never gathered the kind of force this required.

  This was organization.

  This was money.

  This was an attack on Christian’s place of work.

  Luke, her heart told her again. He’s back. Two years, but he’s come back.

  The thoughts ran quickly through her head as people talked around her, asking questions that no one could answer. Veronica pushed them from her mind, letting her own logic take over. She knew very well that she would never be Christian or Luke when it came to raw brainpower, but she wasn’t a slouch. She didn’t need the proverbial weatherman to tell her which way the wind was blowing.

  Hadn’t Christian chased him? Hadn’t he hounded Luke to the far ends of the Earth, traveling across continents to try and bring the man low? Veronica knew Luke would come back, that he wouldn’t be finished in America until he did what he wanted with Christian (and not to mention her), but this? He had never operated like this before. He was always behind the scenes, manipulating other people’s psychology as much as anything else.

  This wasn’t him in the sense of how he preferred to work, but he was the only person capable of this.

  Luke, her heart said, bringing both fear and hope. Fear for her life, but not of dying. Death was fine, something she had thought much of lately, but death at Luke’s hand? Veronica could lose her soul in that.

  Isn’t that what you’re doing now? In hiding from Luke? From life? Hasn’t your soul already been dying day by day?

  Yes, it had. Yes, it was.

  His name also brought hope, though.

  Veronica walked from the room, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t know if suicide was off the table, but she knew she was done hiding from Luke. If he was to have Christian’s and Tommy’s souls, then why let hers die slowly while they fought with a fury she had ignored? No. If
Luke was back, she’d invite the son-of-a-bitch to come take her.

  TOMMY AND CHRISTIAN sat in Waverly’s D.C. office. The amount of security it took to get up here lengthened their trip by an hour, and Tommy was truly impressed with the number of armed guards on every floor.

  Tommy and Christian were known in Washington. They had been briefly known nationwide, by the entire country—not only by fellow FBI agents. Tommy saw respect in the agents’ eyes that recognized him, if some pity, too. He did his best to ignore it, which was easy to do with his body, but harder with his mind. He didn’t want their pity or their recognition—not even any pride. He wanted them to find Luke Titan, or at the least, stop Luke from killing anyone else.

  “I’m guessing neither of you have slept,” Waverly said.

  “No, sir,” Tommy whispered. The attack was 24 hours ago, almost to the minute, and Waverly had wasted no time in getting them up to D.C.—as soon as he confirmed their safety, a plane was dispatched to pick them up.

  “Don’t expect to be getting any soon,” the Director said. “Christian, I want you to set an appointment with Hanson today. No, don’t argue about it. Just tell him I want him to clear his schedule for an hour. I can’t have you losing it right now.”

  Tommy’s eyes shifted to Christian, seeing his mouth open to protest, though Waverly had basically cut him off.

  “The nationwide body count is over 200 already, and that’s just on our side. It’ll probably increase by 50% if we include the attackers. You two have had a day to think, now you tell me, is this Luke?”

  Tommy and Christian had argued for two months about the probability of Luke’s plans, with Tommy’s theory finally winning a few days ago. The plane ride to D.C. was quiet, though, as both realized Christian had been right.

  “We believe that to be the case,” Christian said.

  Waverly stood up from behind the desk and walked to the glass windows which looked out from his office onto the city. He was quiet for some time, much longer than Tommy had seen before. Tommy didn’t know what to say either, with Christian apparently at a loss for words as well.